


He Who Hunts Alone

by batsy22, hes5thlazarus



Series: Fen'Harel's Teeth [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universes, Angst, F/M, Mage Rebellion (Dragon Age), Mage Trevelyan (Dragon Age), POV Solas (Dragon Age), Regret, Solas (Dragon Age) is Grim and Fatalistic, Solas wakes up in a world where he has everything he wants, elf revolution, solas and trevelyan friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24255385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batsy22/pseuds/batsy22, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hes5thlazarus/pseuds/hes5thlazarus
Summary: Solas will restore the Elvhen People as he knew them, even if this world must die. It is his only purpose as he understands it. But a magical accident leaves him in another world, where a version of himself has made a very different choice. Solas is forced to reckon with a desire he has never let himself explore.Inquisitor Tara Trevelyan, both his friend and adversary, is dragged with him, as they move from their world, to a world where Solas seems to have won it all, to another that seems both their worst nightmare.Inquisitor Tara Trevelyan: the rebel apostate mage, romanced JosephineInquisitor Imladris Lavellan: the Dalish First, romanced Solas, featured in Fen'Harel's TeethInquisitor Brigid Trevelyan: the faithful Andrastian prophet, rogue and noble, Tara's sister, romanced Blackwall and then Cullen
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan/Solas, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Solas & Female Trevelyan, Solas & The Inquisition
Series: Fen'Harel's Teeth [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698484
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	1. Tarasyl’an Te’las, the Place Where the Sky is Held

His name is Pride, but not his own. He is the Pride of the Elvhen People, bound into flesh by the All-Mother. Fen’harel came later, an insult reclaimed.

He tells himself that he did it not to be right, but because every alternative was worse. What the Evanuris unleashed would have been the doom of all. They had found unfathomable horror in the depths and in their arrogance attempted to control it. But in trying to save his people, he destroyed them. 

He awoke to a world of Tranquil. A world shackled by human imperialism, by irrational fear of magic and most of all, from Time. He had tried to guide the People, but they shunned him rather than admit fault. Giving the foci to Corypheus was the only choice he could make. 

He would never forget the Inquisition, people rising up against the tide. It was courageous and unexpected. There was Cassandra, a brash crusader guided by Faith, but nonetheless able to acknowledge her mistakes with a perceptiveness Solas had rarely seen. Iron Bull, born an unthinking slave of the Qun, who had defied his masters. Blackwall, a man who had seen war and understood as few did both its horror and necessity. Varric, a Child of the Stone who had shown him that the dwarves were perhaps not so lost as he thought.

And of course there was the Inquisitor herself. She had shown a subtlety and a thoughtfulness he had not seen since Elvhenan. Inquisitor Tara Trevelyan tirelessly fought for her people’s freedom, but also sought wisdom in the midst of battle. The All-Mother had called her “Harbinger of the Next Age.” 

The people of the Inquisition had shown him that there was value in this world. He hoped that they would die in comfort. 

What he seeks now is the most foul form of magic, but if he is to succeed in reshaping the world, he must give up everything that he is. He is not so prideful that he would put himself above the needs of the People. 

* * *

  
“Do you think he could have made it more obvious?” said Tara as she looked at Solas’s wolf frescos. 

“For as much as it’s worth, I don’t think any of us expected the Dread Wolf would dress like that,” replied Dorian. 

“We find out that Solas is Fen’harel and you still wish to discuss his fashion sense.” 

“Well it’s appalling. He lives for thousands of years and he either dresses like an unwashed hobo or a gaudy Antivan prince.” 

Tara was going to miss Dorian terribly once he returned to Tevinter. He and several of the inner circle had travelled to Skyhold after the Exalted Council to assist in cleaning out Skyhold. After tonight, Cassandra and herself would travel to Haven to meet with Harding and Leliana. Vivienne, Sera, Cole, Cullen and Josephine had already left. This was to be the last time the family she had built would be together. 

They made their way to the kitchen where Varric, Bull and Rainer were already playing Wicked Grace. 

“Inquisitor, Sparkler! I told you we’d get in a game before we all left. And Ruffles isn’t here to clean us all out.” 

Varric seemed to realize what he said as soon as it left his mouth. “Shit. I tend to say the absolute worst possible thing sometimes.” 

Her breakup with Josephine was recent enough to still be raw. But Tara was an elf-blooded apostate rebel who had fought against the Chantry most of her adult life. Josephine was lovely and sweet and so extraordinary but Tara could never be a part of her world. It was best for both of them. 

“Cassandra isn’t coming?” asked Tara. 

“Nah. Last I saw her, she had that look in her eye she gets when she’s about to start throwing tables. I may be a dwarf, but she’s got good aim.” 

“I’ll talk to her,” said Tara, “four sovereigns to start?” 

There was a collective groan from the table. “Boss, you don’t pay me enough for four sovereigns,” said Bull. 

“May your next job be more lucrative. You’re welcome to fold.” 

Bull grinned as he wrapped his arm around Dorian and threw his gold on the table. “I’m gonna miss you guys. The craziest shit happened to us.” 

“I thought I had seen enough weird shit in Kirkwall. But really even I couldn’t make up half the shit that happened to us. Fuck, we were in the Fade!” 

“Don’t remind me,” Bull shuddered. Dorian giggled. 

To their surprise, Rainer took the first two rounds.

“I’m impressed Hero,” said Varric, “last time we played you looked so utterly guilty every time you tried to bluff.”

“Had lots of time to practice with Solas before we took down Corypheus for good. He showed no mercy. Once took all my clothes playing Diamondback. Had to walk back to the stables with just a barrel for my bits.” 

“Well way to address the varghest in the room.” 

“Wait I’m sorry,” said Dorian barely containing his laughter, “Solas actually made you strip in front of him. What was that even like? ’”

“Eerie. Bastard didn’t blink once.” 

Varric roared with laughter. “' _Warden Blackwall, as per our previously agreed upon rules of this quaint game, I must insist that you immediately disrobe. Undergarments included.’_ ” Even Tara couldn’t help but smirk at that. 

“He almost told me everything by accident, you know,” said Tara, “After Halamshiral he said that he had missed courtly intrigue. When I asked when he had been at court, he made some excuse up about the Fade.” 

“Now if that isn’t Chuckles. Has contingencies on top of contingencies, fools even Nightingale but almost blows his cover because he’s too excited. If everyone has a fatal flaw, his is talking too much.” 

They played for a few hours longer, all of them trying to make this last night last as long as they could. Bull and Dorian were the first to go.

“Boss, if you ever need to take down something big, like a dragon, promise that you’ll let me know.” 

“Naturally.” 

“And you must promise to talk to me often. It would be most unpleasant to be back home without my dearest friend to talk to.” 

“Of course. What would I do without hearing your velvety voice every day?” Dorian let out a shaky breath and wrapped her in a hug. They then disappeared down the hallway desperately holding onto each other as they walked towards their room for the last time. Rainer was next. 

“It has been my absolute honor serving under you, Inquisitor.” 

“I assure you, the honor was all mine, Thom.” 

He put his arm on her shoulder. “If you ever need my sword arm, I will come. Wherever, whenever.” 

Finally only Varric was left. He scratched his neck nervously. “Shit, I’m no good at goodbyes. It’s why all my stories have terrible endings.” 

“You think this is the end of the story?” 

“I think it’s the end of this story. Your own story is a different matter. Me, I’m happy to live out the rest of my days back home. Kirkwall is weird enough for me. Look, I don’t know how this thing with Chuckles is gonna end up. But I meant what I said back in Halamshiral. You’ll always have a place in Kirkwall. Come visit sometime.” 

“I can perhaps think of more appetizing destinations, but if only for the company, I shall accept your gracious offer. Especially since you gave me control of the harbor.” 

“Take care of yourself, Inquisitor.” 

“You too, Varric.” 

Tara found herself in the courtyard where Cassandra was assaulting a training dummy. 

“I’d offer to spar, but..” she gestured at the arm she’d lost. “I know how hitting me always cheers you up.” 

“I do not enjoy hitting you. You are a worthy sparring partner and I enjoy our training.” 

“I know. I was making a joke.” 

“Yes but I reject the premise of it.” 

In one slice, Cassandra took the head off the dummy. “I was trained to find and destroy threats related to magic. And I did not see the greatest threat in the history of Thedas when he was right in front of me.”

“He fooled all of us. Even Leliana didn’t see it.” 

“I told him of Anthony,” she seethed. 

Cassandra and Tara had not always been on...the best of terms. She was an elf-blooded rebel apostate, one often called an Anders-ite or an absolutionist. As if those were insults. Tara made no secret that she fought for the abolition of all existing oppressive relations. Her goal had not been to restore the world to what it was before the Breach, but to fundamentally transform it. There were many clashes with Cassandra over that vision, the night in the armory being a particularly bad one. But Trevelyan had grown to respect her drive, her courage and most of all her ability to recognize when she was wrong. She never would have thought it then, but now Cassandra had become a dear friend, perhaps even a sister. 

“Tell me truthfully, do you think he can be turned from the path he is on?” 

Tara sighed. “Honestly, I don’t know. But we have to try. I’m not ready to lose any more friends.” 

“I am uncertain too. But I shall follow you, my friend. To whatever end.” 

“You should try to rest. We have a rough journey to Haven.” 

“I do not believe either of us will find any rest tonight.” 

Tara left Cassandra to her training not long after. She walked the ramparts relishing that cool mountain breeze for the last time. After spending most of her life locked in a Circle tower, she would never take for granted the privilege of just feeling the wind against her skin.

She was going to miss Skyhold, but it was far too much of a strategic liability. This castle had become her first permanent home, a place where she could always rest her head, but was never trapped in. Tara found herself in Herald’s Rest, now completely deserted along with everything else. She sat at one of the tables, determined to indulge her melancholy a bit longer. 

“You don’t need to regret. Just remember.” 

“I thought you left already, Cole.” Even as a human, Cole had a tendency to sneak up on her. 

“I was going to, but then you needed me. All of you.” 

The boy regarded her with concern. “You miss him.” 

“I do.” 

“But you’re also angry. So angry. I don’t understand.” 

“Neither do I, Cole.” 

“I can’t see him anymore. But he didn’t do it to hurt you. A wisdom I’ve not seen since the days of Arlathan. It could change everything but it can’t. I’m sorry, I’m not helping.” 

“It’s alright. I’m just not sure this is a hurt you can heal.” 

Cole reached into his bag and pulled out a bag of tea leaves. “This tea makes Maryden hurt less. I got some for you.” 

“That was wonderfully thoughtful of you. Thank you.” 

He seemed sad for a moment. “I’m.... not very good at being a person. What will happen to me now?” 

Tara held his hand. “If it gets too much, you always have Varric or I to stay with. Walk with me?”

_Suddenly, she was falling, hitting the concrete hard. She felt profound fatigue wash over her as if she was being smited by a templar but far, far more intense. Everything about this place felt wrong, as if they very stone hated her. Tara attempted to move her right arm only to feel the cold steel of shackles._

_This had to be a nightmare. She would die before she would let anyone lock her up again. She yelled for help, she pulled against her shackles but it was all for naught._

_“The Prisoner is suffering from another delusional episode. Send the guards.”_

_Tara summoned every last bit of magic she had left. If it didn’t kill them, it would at least kill her. It exploded outwards in a brilliant ball of flame and then…_

She was on the floor of Herald’s Rest, completely winded. There was a body next to her. Wait was that…

Solas?!? 

“Fucking witch,” said a man standing above her as he spat. Out of instinct, she channeled her mana reserves and opened a small Rift, sending the man and his comrades flying. Her head felt heavy, and she felt like she’d just woken up from a nightmare she didn’t remember. 

Herald’s Rest was full of patrons somehow, all of which seemed to be watching. Their attention was drawn to a figure who had just entered the tavern. Tara couldn’t quite make her out. 

Solas wasn’t in his armor, but rather in his regular Skyhold outfit. He regarded her with interest and what might have been confusion. “Inquisitor,” he said. 

“Did you leave any alive?” An elvhen woman with a heavily scarred face stood before then. She gestured at a messenger. “Fetch Sister Nightingale--there was an attack on the tavern.” She reached for Solas. “Are you hurt?”

Now this was fucking weird, even by her standards. Why was Skyhold occupied again? Leliana was here? And most importantly, who was this woman and how did she know Solas? She was Dalish and was marked with what Tara was fairly certain was Mythal’s vallaslin. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but Tara couldn’t quite place it. She felt a sharp pain in her left hand which was odd because she no longer had a left hand. Apparently now she did again. 

“Trevelyan--you look ill. Sit, the both of you. I wasn’t expecting you back so soon. I suppose your report can wait.” She said something to Solas in High Elvhen. Tara could get by in Dalish, though Elanil had informed her that her accent was still off, but the ancient tongue was a whole other matter. Only Dalish Keepers and Firsts kept that language alive. She thought she heard the words “hurt” and “safe.” She caressed Solas’s hand for a brief moment. 

Now, Tara recognized her. Herself and the other Ostwick rebels had been sheltered by Clan Lavellan for a time after the Circle’s annulment. She had only seen the clan’s First in passing though. Clan Lavellan had played a major role in the revolt against the Duke of Wycome, and Tara had done what she could to support their democratic experiment. 

Solas slowly drew back from First Lavellan’s touch, almost regretfully. “Tel nuem ma. I am unharmed. Enchanter Trevelyan has quite a strong grasp of rift magic.” 

Enchanter Trevelyan?!?!

“A strong grasp on rift magic?” Solas and Tara had discussed this school of magic for hours in the rotunda. She’d even venture that she had gotten at least as good as he was. Condescending prick. 

“I meant no offense. Merely that I find your abilities quite impressive.” First Lavellan rolled her eyes at that. There was something on the woman’s left hand, something glowing and radiating intensely powerful magic. It was a mark she had only seen once before, on her own hand.

Oh.

She had four theories. Theory One: She had (finally) completely lost it. Theory Two: She was in the Fade. Theory Three: This was very powerful illusion magic. Theory Four: Those inane “splintering paths” treatises about travelling to other realities that she had read years ago on a whim were true. She immediately discounted Theory Two and Three; this didn’t feel like the Fade and there was no illusion magic powerful enough to create something so sophisticated. So she had either lost her grip on reality or had somehow travelled to another world. Lovely. 

Leliana and several of her agents entered the tavern, grabbing the unconscious bodies of their attackers. “I’ll have these men intergotated, Inquisitor.” Lavellan nodded in response. 

“Do you know why these men attacked you?” asked Leliana. 

“The usual. One of them spat on me and called me a witch.” 

“Ah. Then I shall make their recovery unpleasant.” It was good to know that in any reality, Leliana was still utterly terrifying. 

“May I take my leave, uh, Inquisitor? I’d like to rest a bit.” 

“Of course. I’ll anticipate your report about the rebel mages tomorrow morning.” 

Tara was lucky that she landed in the reality where an elvhen revolutionary mage was Inquisitor. She didn’t even want to think about other possibilities. Still, she did not feel it prudent to inform Lavellan of the particulars of her situation quite yet, at least not until she had some hard evidence. 

She really hoped Dagna existed in this world. 

* * *

This was not his world. He did not even know the name of the woman sitting in front of him, but clearly she knew him intimately. After the fight, she had led him to a much more private table upstairs in the tavern. 

Solas had not heard his language spoken in over two thousand years. The Dalish spoke a version of it, one mutated from centuries of slavery and through contact with human and dwarven tongues. But this woman had spoken it near perfectly. She had caressed his hand in the tavern, her touch subtle but comforting. He could not recall when he had been touched like that. Nor did he realize how much he craved it. 

She was Dalish and wore the All-Mother’s vallaslin. Various scars marked her face, clearly she had not had an easy life. The magical anchor of the anchor radiated from her hand, as it had with Tara. 

In Vir Dirthara, he had read about magic that could access the paths between worlds, but always considered such accounts apocryphal. Even Dirthamen had not pursued aforesaid magic. Nonetheless, such information was no longer available to him, as he had inadvertently destroyed the library, along with the collected knowledge of millenia of Elvhen civilization. Since dealing with the Qunari trespassers, that old hurt had been particularly troublesome, but it was no less than he deserved. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?”, the woman asked him, again in perfect Elvhen. Each word she spoke in his native tongue, grounded him in a way he had not felt in a very long time. He wondered how she had achieved such grasp over the language. It was so incredibly wonderful, and yet too much. 

She took his hand once more, squeezing it with affection and reassurance. He was unprepared for how his body instinctively just reacted to her touch. With great effort, he forced himself to pull away. 

“I am undisturbed,” he said, intentionally switching to Common, “merely I pity our assailants. As I would any who incur the wrath of Sister Nightingale.” 

She let out a short laugh, and he was surprised to find himself smiling in response. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with Enchanter Trevelyan. You both bicker like old friends,” she said, now speaking in a Free Marches Dalish dialect. 

Trevelyan certainly was an old friend despite everything. She was the woman who, even upon seeing all he was guilty of through the ages, had determined he was worth trying to save. As misguided and futile as it was, the gesture was a meaningful one. He had not had a better friend since...Fellassan. Another mistake. 

“Enchanter Trevelyan is also a practicing rift mage. It has been mutually beneficial to discuss the topic with each other.” 

She eyed him with an indecipherable look. “I’ve been meaning to share the evening meal with Rope and her. Perhaps you will join us?” 

Solas could not lie to himself about the implications. The way she touched him with such care and affection, how his very body gravitated towards her all pointed to one obvious conclusion. How could this version of himself lie with someone under a false name? It was despicable and unprincipled. 

He had made an excuse to leave not longer after and retreated into his only refuge. He walked the paths of the Fade, but he only found Regret and Sorrow. He searched for Wisdom, in the desperate hope that his old friend might still live in this version of reality, but found only wisps. 

He had spent weeks alone after her death in the Fade. Her last words to him, “now you must endure”, echoing in his mind. He knew what it was he had to do. To save the Elvhen people, this world had to die. That was his purpose. 

Solas would need to rejoin the Inquisition and guide Inquisitor Trevelyan towards recapturing the orb. Even then, he had grown to respect and even care for her as he had, to his surprise, many in the organization. In the end, he had betrayed them all. 

“Why do you torment yourself, He Who Hunts Alone?” came a new voice that Solas did not recognize. “Why deny to yourself that everything could be different if you let it?” 

It showed him something: a desire of his so buried that he was not aware it was there. It was himself and the Dalish woman, Lavellan was the name that appeared in his mind, just...together. Companionship. Acceptance. Love. 

He could not deny the temptation, but his mission was far too important to abandon. It was indeed deeply disturbing that a version of him had. 

* * *

  
This reality was remarkably similar in some ways and vastly different in others. Here, she was not Inquisitor, but a representative of the rebel mages to the Inquisition and one of Fiona’s agents. Had she not been at the Conclave, perhaps this is what her life would have looked like. 

She had found Dagna in the tavern with Dorian and Fiona, engaging in a bolsterious debate about magic. To her surprise, they welcomed her as if expecting her presence. Such discussions had happened in her Skyhold as well, regular arguments in the tavern between the Inquisition’s mages about the finer points of magical theory. But Tara had rarely had the time to participate. When she did, she found that her presence as “Inquisitor” stifled the conversation. 

Tara waited until the third mug of ale to bring it up. “So theoretically, with enough raw magical power, could one open the paths between worlds? Travel between realities?” 

Dorian laughed into his mug. “Is that what you Southern mages think about? I thought better of your intellect, Trevelyan.” 

“And I thought better of your tolerance for ale. Evidently, we are both disappointed.” 

Tara couldn’t remember the last time she was just “Trevelyan.” It was rather nice. 

“And I believe the founder of the “multiple paths” theory was Tevinter was he not?” injected a smirking Fiona. 

Dagna looked thoughtful and then exuberant. “Wait don’t dismiss it! We know that a single piece of lyrium exists in both the real world and the Fade but there’s a third state that we know nothing about. What if it exists across different realities? How cool would that be?” 

“Are you all actually entertaining this? I wish Solas were here to speak some sense. Where is he?” said Dorian. 

“With the Inquisitor last I saw,” said Tara. 

“Ah yes. Quite romantic those two,” Dorian leered, “personally, I find those happily in love sickening.” 

Now there was confirmation of a suspicion Trevelyan had desperately hoped she was wrong about. The heartbreak in finding that your love was the great enemy of your people’s faith, she couldn't even imagine it. Once she had evidence, she’d need to warn Lavellan. 

Dorian and Dagna had left not long after. “Do we trust Inquisitor Lavellan?” Tara asked Fiona once they were alone. “Has she been good to our people?” 

Fiona looked confused. “Yes, our alliance with the Inquisition has been most beneficial. Has something happened?” 

“Just making sure.” 

She left a rather confused Fiona in the tavern and eventually found herself in the rotunda. There were experiments she could run in the mage tower tomorrow morning but it was best not to do such magic when one was drunk. As she had learned from experience. 

“Enchanter Trevelyan,” Solas greeted as she entered the room. They seemed to be the tower’s only occupants this late at night. It was odd, in her Skyhold, she had multiple conversations with Solas in this room, about a variety of different topics. But here now, was the first time she saw him as who he really was. Everything he had hidden from her and the others. He had lied about everything. She felt fury begin to consume her, an great all-encompassing anger she had not let herself feel since the Exalted Council. 

She realized that he had said “Inquisitor” when he had seen her back in the tavern. Her assumption had been that she was speaking to Lavellan, but he had looked at her. Solas was staring at her intently and she had not realized she was staring back. 

His right hand was just slightly behind his back, able to reach his staff if needed. A position mirrored by herself. 

“Tara,” he greeted. 

Never start a fight if you’re not certain you can win, was the advice she had received during the mage rebellion. Truthfully she had always had trouble following it. 

“Shall I assume this is your fault then? It usually is.”

“I have some theories as to our current predicament. It would likely be mutually beneficial to combine our efforts.” 

There was a sound from the balcony above and something buzzed right past her and hit Solas. She dodged a projectile, but another hit her right in the throat. Her vision blurred and she could just make out Solas collapsing to the floor in front of her. 

* * *

  
Trevelyan awoke to a pounding headache. Some sort of knockdrug most likely. In her inebriated state, she had let her guard down. Stupid. She was in a furnished room, she’d guess one of the Skyhold garden rooms, but the door looked to be sealed with some sophisticated magical barrier. Something was blocking her magic as well like she was being smited.

“You’re awake. I was beginning to worry,” said Solas. 

With great effort, she got up out of the bed to inspect the door. “Have you tried to get through yet?” 

Solas smiled at her. “Clever. You know as well as I that any escape attempt from Skyhold would be ill-advised if even we were able to breach the door. I assume your intention in asking me that question is to ascertain the limits of my abilities.” 

Tara thought back to her conversation with Varric and the others, which already felt like a lifetime ago. “I thought I’d use your fatal flaw against you.” 

“I was unaware that I had a fatal flaw.” 

“You do. But it would be so easy to tell you too much,” she said mockingly. 

“Despite everything, it is remarkably good to see you again, Tara. Especially in less dire circumstances.” 

“Is it? So do you have another speech prepared?”

“I’m sorry to say I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Last time we met you gave me a speech. How many times did you recite that in front of the mirror?” 

Solas looked embarrassed for a moment. “I generally do not make a habit of rehearsing what I say.” 

“Ah, so you just naturally speak in that pentameter then.” 

Tara was parched. She looked around the room for something to drink, but only found a tea pot, rather obviously placed in the center of the room. She laughed. 

“I think I like First Lavellan,” she said pouring herself a cup of tea as Solas looked in disgust. “Which brings us to a rather awkward point.” 

“Yes. I find the implications of this version of myself’s relationship with Lavellan quite disturbing as well.”

Her mood soured and the fury she had felt earlier returned in force. “You mean how you fucked her without her knowing who you are.” 

“I would never lie with someone under a false name.” 

“A false name? You mean that you’re _Fen’harel_ , the great enemy of her people.” 

“Tara, I understand your anger. In your position, I would share it. But I have no further desire to continue this conversation.” 

“Well, I have no desire to be locked in a fucking cage again. Least of all with _you_.” 

Hurt flashed across Solas’s face for a moment before he steeled himself. “I am sorry for my deception. Truly I am.”

“No you’re not. If you were sorry, you wouldn’t still be trying to destroy the world. Do I deserve to die? Does Cassandra? Varric? Dorian? Iron Bull? Were we ever more than just pawns to you?” 

“All of you will die regardless. Such is the curse of this world. I regret the methods I must use, but no price is too high for the restoration of my people.”

He seemed powerless but Tara had to remind herself that this was not her friend and mentor from the days of her Inquisition. Rather this was the Dread Wolf, an incredibly ancient and dangerous being who always had a trick up his sleeve.

Fortunately then, the door swung open though the barrier remained. Lavellan, Dorian, Leliana, and Cole stood on the other side of it. 

“If you both are spies, you have a rather profound lack of subtlety,” said Lavellan.

“It is clear you both are not who you say you are,” said Leliana, “tell us who you really are and why you are here or else I shall make your stay quite unpleasant.” 

Tara opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t quite find the words for their situation. “Truthfully, I don’t even know where to begin. Uh we’re both from another reality. No idea how we got here but it’s likely his fault. ” 

Dorian laughed out loud. Leliana glowered at her again and reached for her dagger. “‘I’m sorry, I failed you too.’ Justinia’s last words to you,’” said Trevelyan as Leliana stopped in her tracks. “I know because in my world, I was in the Fade when the spirit of her Faith said them to me. I’m sorry, I know it is a difficult memory, but I don’t know how else to prove that I’m who I say I am.” 

Cole looked at Tara with confusion. “I.. can’t see her. She’s too bright, like you.” 

There was a pain then in her left hand, like what she had felt during the Exalted Council but even more acute. It forced her to her knees and she couldn’t help but cry out in pain. It subsided in just a few seconds but when she looked down…

It was the Mark on her hand once more. As it had been before Solas had removed her arm. “I assume this is your fault as well,” she growled at Solas. 

“I...am truly uncertain of the cause.” 

Dorian cast a dispel spell through the barrier. “This is no illusion magic,” he confirmed. 

“What about him?” Lavellan nodded at Solas. Cole stared at him intently and drew back as if stuck. 

“He doesn’t want to kill you, but he will.” He turned to look at Lavellan and then Trevelyan. “Both of you.” 


	2. I Would Treasure the Chance to Be Wrong Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition comes visited and attempt to sway Solas

“He doesn’t want to kill you, but he will.” Cole turned to look at Lavellan and then Trevelyan. “Both of you.” 

It was rather crude but not all-together inaccurate. Though it was not the most pleasant thought. He removed Cole from his mind before he could pull anything else. 

Inquisitor Lavellan‘s frown deepened and she closed her eyes for a moment. “Banal’nadas,” she said, and smiled crookedly. Solas looked at her sharply. He had snapped that back at the Nightmare at Adamant, as a reminder as to the necessity of his path. The Blight was inevitable. He did not understand why she said that, what did she mean? But Lavellan’s eyes moved over him and met Tara’s.

“There’s something else you need to know. Have you defeated Corypheus yet?” 

“Still working on that bit. He’s quite illusive for a 9 foot Darkspawn.” said Dorian. 

Solas prepared himself for Tara’s revelation. Despite Trevelyan’s own anger at him, he did not think she would let him come to any real harm. He doubted Lavellan would attempt anything as well. Though they did try to hurt him, there were still options available to him. For their sakes, he desperately hoped they would not try. 

Tara turned to look at Lavellan. “Look, I know you’re involved with your version of Solas, but he’s more than what he seems. As incredible as it may sound, he is Fen’Harel recently awoken from uthenaria. His goal from the start has been to recapture the orb Corypheus wields and use it to tear down the Veil. He is going to betray you.” 

Lavellan blinked. “You mean uthenera. We’re aware of it, working on it--thought we resolved it, to be honest. I thought I’d made more headway, but it appears I asked too much of fate.”

“You...already know? And your Solas is still with the Inquisition?”

“Yes rather old news at this point I’m afraid,” said Dorian, “was quite a surprise though. He’s so nondescript after all. Took lots of arguing to get him to abandon that insane plan of his.” 

“Arguments among other things,” said Leliana. 

“I only punched him once,” said Lavellan. 

This was...most unexpected. As well as deeply concerning. The quest to restore the elvhen people was far too important to put aside for selfish desires. 

“So I don’t want to be rude, truly loved the tea, but I’d like to spend as little time in here as possible. Especially with him.” 

Lavellan nodded and Dorian pulled back the barrier for Tara to step through. They did not know her like he did so likely they could not sense the extent of her distress. She, like many Circle mages, was particularly sensitive to imprisonment and claustrophobia. The result of another of this world’s needless cruelties. In the days of the Inquisition, he occasionally could help distract her by telling stories of what he had seen in the Fade. He doubted that would be welcome now. 

Tara suggested they continue their conversation elsewhere and they had departed not long after. They had left guards of course, but with the exception of them, he was alone. 

He had not lied to Tara, right now he only had mere theories as to their predicament. Though he had omitted one rather crucial bit of information. A secret that he would not dare to speak aloud, not even to himself. He needed to search the Fade to see if how correct his assumptions were. 

Falling asleep was easy, familiar regardless of how disturbing his surroundings were. He woke to the Fade, shifted into the ever-comforting shape of Tarasyl’an Te’las, Skyhold, as it was now. There was only a threshold, and he stepped through it: the Fade held no bars for him. He had forged the locks.

Flashes of people he had seen in Tara’s Skyhold whispered by: the same two mages, arguing about Andraste; Minaeve, looking out the corner of her eye and scuttling by, still shaken by Haven; Scout Harding climbing the stairs to find Sister Nightingale. It pleased him that so little had changed, despite Lavellan claiming the Anchor. Solas had never decided whether he believed in Fate, but he knew his past choices shaped his path now, and the present, regardless of the minuscule differences, had been shaped by his gambles. It reassured him, and saddened him slightly. What had made Lavellan different? How had she so undermined him?

Then he realized: the messengers were different. They were all Dalish. He focused on one girl, saw in a flash: colder than Wycombe but better this than Orzammar, Dread Wolf take them, hope Imladris knows what she’s doing an elvhen woman wearing Keeper robes standing on a stage gesturing at a crowd, not just Dalish, not just elves, dwarves too, was that one branded with June’s vallaslin? And her voice, Lavellan proclaiming, “When the state proves inadequate to our needs, when they serve merely to enslave us, the people have the eternal right to rebel! A more perfect union is possible! A better world is possible!” In a blink the Dalish girl sauntered by, Lavellan’s words echoing through the corridor of the Fade, and Solas exhaled sharply, because those words a millennium ago had been his.

From there it got stranger. He turned to the Great Hall and saw himself there, arm casually slung around Lavellan, hand at her waist, and once more the Fade twisted to reflect what she saw, this version of himself looked well-fucked and loose-limbed as he said, “I am always grim and fatalistic. Getting you into bed is just an enjoyable side benefit.”

“Even when I keep you up all night? Keeping you from the Fade?”

“Especially when you keep me up. As I said, I never thought I would meet someone who could draw my attention from the Fade, but your focus is...incredible. But now--I am distracting you from your duties, and you from mine. Perhaps we can meet in the garden later?”

Solas watched the two of them flirt sleepily and narrowed his eyes, looking for corruption. He had always struggled with wanting too much, too quickly, but these were not reflections of his own Desire, and finally he looked away before he could warp the purity of the Fade further. He beat a retreat to the rotunda, which had been his place since he had laid the cornerstone, but stopped, shocked. The frescoes were different. His portrayal of Adamant was different.

He had painted himself, as the ravening wolf, jaws about to snap around the Black City, still ensconced by the Veil. Under the city, in the mountains of the Western Approach, a small figure in white was visible, holding an upraised hand. Before it stood a spirit of Contemplation, in his own shape. Solas watched his facsimile place its hands on its hips, scoff, cross its arms and tap the side of its face. He turned away.

He found himself back in the room where Lavellan had imprisoned him. Again the spirits had taken their forms and arranged themselves in a tragic tableaux.

“Look me in the eye and tell me my children aren’t people, Solas. Look me in the eye and tell me they deserve to die.”

The spirit of Purpose that had mimicked his form couldn’t. It said, shamefaced, “They will die anyway.”

And the spirit of Justice that had taken Lavellan’s form punched it so hard it fell over, and he heard the audible snap of a broken jaw. He watched the scene repeat three more times before he said, “Enough,” and left the Fade in disgust.

* * *

They left him with a sketchbook, which was kind, and a broken pencil, which was not. There was also a book of modern Dalish poetry on the table. The publishing mark was ridiculous: Fen’Harel’s Teeth. Solas rubbed his jaw when he saw it, wondering why the Dalish had fixated on such random parts of his body. In the times of Arlathan, most of the people he had met were convinced he was a literal wolf. The Dalish had not improved upon their ancestors.

He played mental chess against himself, staring at the wall, for the first day. At regular intervals, a smirking messenger, marred with Mythal’s vallaslin, would bring tea. There was nothing else to drink in the room, and he was too tired to attempt to draw moisture from the air. He drank tea to slake his thirst and paced around the room in circles to work the caffeine off, unable to enter the Fade. Whatever their relationship, Lavellan knew how to wind him up. She had been gentle with him in the tavern. It was not a productive line of thinking.

Early the next morning, just as he was beginning to drift into the Fade, he was roused by a knock on the door. Blackwall, Thom Rainier as it were, entered the room. Solas shot him such a filthy look that Blackwall laughed.

“Not interrupting anything, am I?” he asked. “Figured you could use some company.”

Solas thought, I could use some sleep. He sat up in bed. Blackwall dragged a chair over to the nightstand and settled down, pulling out a deck of cards and shuffling. Solas had liked Blackwall, had felt kinship with him, and thought he had seen his best intentions mirrored. He admired the human’s nobility, and his determination to stand against the tide of degradation that seemed to pull at most of his species. The revelation of his crime, at first, had devastated him, but Solas could not lie to himself for long. He was so disturbed because Blackwall had proved too precise a mirror, and he himself had done worse than murder a single family, and let others hang for the crime. He had done so much worse.

“Full disclosure, Lavellan told me I could only visit this early. I tried to remind her that whatever you are right now, that’s still our Solas’ body, and you’d--he’d--be pretty annoyed to come back twitchy off all that tea she’s feeding you. But she’ll cool down. If she could forgive you for the whole Fen’Harel shit, she’ll ease up when you come back.”

Solas was silent for a second. “We will leave this trouble with pronouns aside. Let us be clear: I am not the man you knew, and I ask no one for forgiveness.”

Blackwall said, simply, “Cole disagrees.” He began dealing cards. “So tell me, what’s it like with Trevelyan as the Inquisitor? Can’t imagine a world without Lavellan in charge. Did you meet her, in your world?”

“No,” Solas said. “What are you doing?”

“Playing Diamondback with you. Like we always do. And I find the image of you banging your head against the wall distasteful. I suppose Emprise du Leon didn’t happen for you.” Blackwall looked at Solas inquiringly.

Solas shifted. “It was a memorable experience,” he hedged.

“Ah. So it didn’t. Not like it did for us. That explains a bit. Since we don’t have money, are we wagering clothes like last time? I don’t have any weapons on me, you wouldn’t be able to use it to escape. Though I expect as the Lord of Tricksters, you’ll think of something.”

Solas got up and strode to the other side of the room. He was thirsty, and as he reached for the turtle teapot at the table, he noticed his hands shaking from the caffeine. They knew who he was. Why weren’t they taking him more seriously? How had he, Fen’Harel, Mythal’s own Pride, managed to sustain a rapport with a fake Grey Warden and a fucked up Dalish First? Solas poured himself the last bitter cup from the pot, and drained it to its last drop. It was disgusting, and he raised an eyebrow at the scummy residue in the bottom.

“So you know,” he said, back to Blackwall. “Is it widely known amongst the Inquisition?”

The chair creaked as Blackwall turned. “It was pretty hard to hide after the Inquisitor rescued us from Suledin Keep. But that’s not a story for you, I guess. You need to find your own path.” Solas turned around at that, irritated, he had never deviated from his way, and what was this shadow, this passing dream to tell him about his destiny that he had not already known. He had lived two millennia, most of it drifting through the Fade from empire’s fall to fall, and at least six centuries amongst the People. Time had been different, in Arlathan. It had always felt like an option, not a law. Blackwall shook his head at the look at Solas’ face. “So that got to you, huh? Listen. You helped me after Val Royeaux. You and Lavellan reminded me that I could atone, I could find forgiveness--if not from the people I wronged, from the good I did after. I’m here to return the favor. I don’t know what fucked up world you’re from, and I don’t quite understand all the wrong you’ve done. But I know here, you managed to make things right, or at least better. For not just Lavellan, or me, or Bull, or Cassandra. For the mages, helping them be less afraid of the Fade. Giving them some peace with themselves. And for your people, too--”

Solas said meditatively, “I am sure the man you met did his best to dispose of himself as well as possible. For my part, I am uninterested in engaging with the deeds of a man I have not met, and whose goals and morals seem to hold nothing in common with my own. It is a kindness that you came, Blackwall. It would have been kinder if you brought fresh water rather than a deck of cards.” Blackwall knew nothing of his people, knew nothing of what he sacrificed for Elvhenan. For millennia, his life had not been his own. He had done nothing that did not further the safety and security of the People. This world was an insult to all he had sacrificed. Every cruel decision he had made was for nothing, because for that Dalish shadow, he had given it all up to the Blight. Banal’nadas: she knew it too. With horror, he realized: perhaps they had found another way, or--no. He must have succumbed to his own despair. There was no other way, he knew. He wanted there to be one, but no: he would have found it already, if there was one. Reforging the world was the only option he had left.

He received visits from Iron Bull, Varric and Dorian over the next few days. The Tal-Vashoth mercenary had asked for a game of chess, citing his disappointment in only being able to play Dorian or Cullen. It was good to stretch his mind and play with someone other than himself. Iron Bull had even managed to win a game. Solas had observed the creation of the Qunari race in the Fade while he slept, a terrible experiment by those Across the Sea that imbued humans with dragon blood. A deeply disturbing use of magic, one he had only seen used once before. He saw a race of tempestuous savages only to be brought to heel by a system that forbade thought itself. The Iron Bull then had not been what he had expected. A man indulgent yet clever, who enjoyed battle without reveling in murder and who respected authority but defied the Qun. 

Master Tethras’s wit was evidently a constant across realities. He spoke of his love for the trickster archetype common in human and Dalish literature and of grand redemption stories. His attempted point was not lost. Varric was unlike many of the Children of the Stone Solas had encountered. He had grown to respect the race he had fought against for centuries as part of the Evanuris’s war with the Titans. They were an incredibly practical people, capable of building great machines, but lacked imagination. Once the Pillars of the Earth had gone dormant, they could no longer dream. Varric though was fundamentally a storyteller, and his rather crude prose often concealed a rare kind of wisdom. 

Solas had despised Dorian at first. The arrogant Tevinter mage so desperate for Solas’s absolution for the crimes of his people. It was exoneration he could never give. But Dorian also had an extraordinary mind for both magic and politics even as he tried his best to throw those gifts away with drink. The Inquisition, and the Inquisitor herself, had changed him greatly. The revelations at the All-Mother’s temple, something Solas had expected would break the Tevinter, inspired him instead, driving him towards the mission to reform the Imperium. Solas held no illusions, the attempt would fail, but the endeavor was a worthy one. 

They were all exceptional people who defied easy categorization. The framework he had created to understand this world after the Veil could not accommodate them. Circumstances aside, it was good to see them all again. He had never had a chance to say goodbye. 

He noted he had not seen either First Lavellan or Tara in person. On occasion, he saw them while he dreamed, but they would draw away upon noticing him. Lavellan in particular looked at him with utter distaste, very different from her warm glances in the tavern. 

To his surprise, Solas found himself enjoying the book of poetry she had left him. It was written in a Free Marches Dalish dialect, one with traces of Sindarin and even Orzish. Its rhythm was similar to old Elvhen in a way, and Solas found it soothing. 

It had been a week before Tara visited him. It was late and she carried a bottle of wine with her. She sat down cross legged in front of the magical barrier. “Ok, let’s talk,” she said as she downed the rest of it. 

Truly, Solas had nothing more to speak to her about. His intervention with the Qunari had not just been to save her life, but to give closure to them both. Solas could afford no distractions in his mission, especially from those he had come to care for. They said nothing for a time. She was angry still, a barely concealed rage he could feel echoing in the Fade around them. Yet it had softened somewhat, allowing in hurt and sadness. Solas had become very familiar with the sting of betrayal while he waged his revolution against the Evanuris. Some who betrayed him did so for gold, but most surrendered to despair. 

It occured to Solas for the first time how young she was. Just a mere thirty summers to her name, and she held the fate of her people and millions more in her hand. That arrogant shemlen, Morrigan, had been right about one thing, the soldiers of the Inquisition had more than Andraste’s name on their lips when they prayed. 

“You said that you would treasure the chance to be wrong again. Give me this chance to show you that there’s another way. Please.”

He thought about how she had refused to hurt even a corrupted Wisdom. The respect she had shown at the All-Mother’s temple. Her fight against oppression wherever she saw it. The countless times she had saved his life and he had saved hers. How she had seen his terrible legacy and still refused to give up on him. 

“I will listen,” he said. 

“Oh. Well then.” She cleared her throat. “Truthfully, I didn’t think I would get this far.” 

“I would have expected you to have rehearsed this. I am not the only one to employ such tactics.” 

That made her laugh. For a moment, everything between them was just as it was before. But only for a moment. 

“Consider what has happened in this word and in ours. Mages overthrew the Circle of Magi. Briala holds the reins of power in Orlais and topples alienage walls. Clan Lavellan, organizing with the city elves, surface dwarves and human peasantry, overthrew Duke Antoine of Wycome.” 

“All worthy endeavors that have succeeded only due to the intervention of yourself and First Lavellan. Though such progressive advances often suffer reactionary relapse." 

“An assumption and one that is particularly unfounded. As you say, nothing is inevitable.” 

“I speak from experience in this particular matter. I have seen countless rebellions rise, their success always matched by the brutality of inescapable repression. Do you expect the aristocracy and the Chantry to passively accept these reforms? Fear of the Inquisition and of its Inquisitor has kept them in line so far, but that will not dissuade them for much longer. What shall you do then?” 

Trevelyan smirked.“Quite simple actually. We beat them.” He had made the same mistake when he was in her position. It was an error, he thought with just a bit of shame, that he could exploit. 

“Or we don’t. Then, we see where things went wrong and try again. Every struggle builds on the last. Until we win.” 

“A comforting platitude but still entirely theoretical. I have seen nothing to convince that there is any other way to help my people, oppressed as they are now.” 

“Tell that to Lavellan,” said Tara, “Am I to understand then that your grand plan is to free the most powerful group of tyrants to ever live?” 

She could not understand. Nor could any being who did not personally witness the splendor of Arlathan at its height. The great city in the Sky stretching over half a continent, where every single stone radiated with magic. Libraries with the knowledge of millennia of civilizations. Debates that lasted for centuries. None except him truly understood the magnitude of its loss. He had woken up to a nightmare, but he was the master of dreams and he would restore what was. 

“I know the Evanuris. I have plans for them.” 

“You have a plan? How has that worked out so far?” she snapped. “Will you ever stop making the same mistake?” 

Solas blinked, snorted, and laughed. “I assure you, my friend,” he said, “I have learned to never leave my People in the arms of Fate. I am not the gambler I once was.”

“How reassuring.”

"Jest if you will but do not mistake my commitments in this matter." 

"What do you think you see around you? You have a choice even if you have convinced yourself you don't. You don't have to die alone." 

Solas did not know why this version of himself would abandon all principle nor how he could justify lying with Lavellan. "I am not interested in hypothesizing about the life of a man that I share only superficial resemblance to. Nor do I wish to engage in idle speculation regarding how my own life would be different under entirely different circumstances."

"I have truly not met a man as skilled in self-destruction as you, Solas. My congratulations." With that, Tara left, to stew on what he could not contemplate.

A knock on the door jolted him from his meditations, or the sheer will it took not to think at all. Lavellan stepped through, balancing a water jug at her waist and carrying a covered tray of food. He stared at her.

“My better nature won out,” she said. “Rainier had a word.” She regarded the empty bottle of wine on the table. “Drowning your sorrows? How unlike you.” She smiled crookedly, scar tissue pulling at the edge of her lips. Solas found himself reaching, to smooth the hurt away, but put his hand down. The body remembered. This was not his body.

Irritated, Solas said, “I would not have to resort to wine, if you gave me enough water to drink.”

“We keep you hydrated,” Lavellan said. She took his glass and poured water into it smoothly. It was a domestic touch. She sat next to him and they both tensed. Carefully, he moved away. “I do not care particularly about you. I do care very much about the body you inhabit. And, for all my faults, I’m not habitually cruel.”

She could not help but confide in him, he saw. Whatever this world had done to him, he had become her confidante. He felt the same magnetism that had drawn him in the tavern, but resisted. What the mind forgot the body remembered: but he had never known her.

“What do you want?”

“For you to return to your own reality, and let my man return,” she said. Then she smiled crookedly. “And to repent, I suppose, for the tea. You--he--well--”

“Let us put aside this trouble with pronouns,” Solas said impatiently. “I am me, and very clearly not the man who is your lover. I have no interest in self-destruction--” Lavellan laughed, and he grimaced slightly, he could see the irony there.

“‘I walk the din’anshiral,’” she quoted at him. “Your friend was happy to tell us--at length--what you did. Down to the prepared speeches, in perfect iambic pentameter, and resurrecting your old armor from your Fen’Enansal days. She ranted at length, in fact. I don’t think she had anyone who understood how intractable you are, in your world.”

“Why are you here?” Solas said. He took the glass and drank from it thirstily, and poured himself another. “To lecture me for my sins? Dissuade me from my path? You know you cannot.” He was tired. “I do not know what this version of myself thought of you, I do not understand how I could have preyed upon--”

Angry, Lavellan raised a hand. “I’m not having this conversation with you.” The room was beginning to warm up, and the candles on the table hissed. She took a deep breath and the temperature dropped. Solas was surprised to see a Dalish mage powerful enough to push through the Veil unintentionally. Coolly she regarded him. “While you are not by nature a happy man,” Solas could not disagree with that, and repressed a slight smile, “trust that you were--are--happy with me.” Her voice was brittle. He had not meant to cause her pain. “As happy as anyone carrying such grief can be. I have not told Trevelyn anything you told me in confidence--though you ought to have warned her about the Blight. I will not interfere in the fate of your world. It is not my responsibility. You are not my responsibility.” She stood up. “Hopefully whatever disastrous spell you worked will run its limit soon and our worlds will right themselves. Enjoy your meal.” She left as abruptly as she had entered.

The food she had left him was simple and enjoyable, vegetable stew and brown bread. He always preferred to eat this in times of emotional upheaval. It soured his stomach, that she had known a version of him so well. It soured his sense of self, that he had hurt her unintentionally. Solas knew his flaws: arrogance, impulsiveness, a vicious streak that he had spent nearly two millennia trying to contain, occasional bouts of pettiness. The Veil had been a gamble he had lost. He put his head in his hands and breathed shakily, trying to restrain the grief, the anger, the fear. Perhaps, with this woman’s help, he had found a better way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all liked!


	3. Harbingers of the New Age

Corypheus’s dream was a twisted and corrupted mirror of Thedas. Here was the answer to a question he had not dared to ponder until now. He could sense the Blight all around him in this part of the Fade, this ever present sense that he was being watched and was not welcome. Solas knew better than to linger here, the Blight held far worse things than darkspawn. 

“Why do you haunt my steps, Old Wolf? Do you intend to prey upon me as you did your own?” 

Solas stayed silent. The magister looked almost pathetic like this, his army defeated and plans shattered. With the assumption that events would unfold like they did in his world, soon he would channel his shame and rage into reopening the Breach for the last time. Solas hoped Lavellan would be able to stop him. 

“You can no longer hide who you are from me. The dead whispers in the Golden City spoke your name. You are the Wolf who prowls the Fade, devouring those who delve into the forgotten places of the world. Now you whisper in the ears of the false prophet. Why have you come to me?” 

“To answer a question.” 

“The last god of the slaves has the gail come before me. I grow tired of the enigmas of your race. The blood of your people will fuel the new Imperium as it did the old.” 

Corypheus was a Nightmare, the monster that parents scared their children with. He was hideous and detestable. A monument to the hubris of the Tevinter magisters. A brute and a thief fumbling with forces he could not begin to comprehend. Solas was not Corypheus. Lavellan’s comparison rang in his head nonetheless. 

There were other, much more ancient forces in the red lyrium that began to notice Solas’s presence. He turned and left as Corypheus raged behind him. The darkspawn flung spell after spell but none could touch him. No being knew the Fade better than its creator.

* * *

Eyes snap open in the gray dawn, and Imladris Ashallin, First of Clan Lavellan, and Inquisitor of at least one version of Thedas, has a moment to remember why her bed is cold before she retches and vomits, abruptly, off the side of her bed, right into a chamberpot Mathalin so kindly left for her. Her daughter, almost grown now, too grown, she can hear her playing her father’s guitar as she pukes so hard tears start from her eyes, and she hates everything, hates the cold, hates her body revolting from her, hates the cold bed and hates that her man isn’t there with tea already warm in its cup to wash this taste away.

Eventually she stops and she wipes her mouth and her eyes and washes the taste out, Mathalin knocks and offers her a cup of mint tea. “Mirwen’s sick,” she says matter-of-factly, while Imladris still has her head in her hands, catching her breath. “Just a slight fever, but I tucked her back in.”

Imladris breathes sharply into her hands and takes the cup of tea from her daughter. “What was it, that you were playing? It sounded familiar.” Her father played like that, Mahanon, her heart: five empty years now, without his song to guide her. How could time keep spinning?

Mathalin shrugs. “Dunno. Something Babae played, I guess.” Her heart clenches and Imladris thinks you look so much like your father you even play like him, and she tells her daughter she loves her because what the fuck else might happen, you wake up in the morning and the man staring out of your lover’s eyes isn’t yours, leaving you alone with your girls and the whole world ending,  _ how could he _ , and even though she didn’t say anything Mathalin hugs her before she goes, in the cold gray morning light, she hugs her hard.

Sick and angry Imladris cleans herself up and twists her hair into a tight unforgiving bun, she paints her lips just a bit too dark, and in the mirror her reflections glare back and she wonders what she had made of herself, in that world, where she had not heard the Divine’s cry. Was she even alive? Did anyone of them survive? What had happened to a Wycombe where Clan Lavellan did not have access to the most organized standing army in Thedas? Bad thoughts, her daughters dead or worse, the lot of them sold to the Blind Men, dragged across the desert to Tevinter. “Enough,” she told herself sharply, and she went to check on Mirwen, who was cocooned in her blankets, steaming slightly. Both her girls had inherited her affinity with fire. Amused, she brushed Mirwen’s sweaty hair off her face and kissed her forehead. A slight fever, nothing serious, she needed to rest.

“Mamae,” Mirwen murmured, and Lavellan touched her face.

“Rest, my little one,” she said. “I’ll be back later--I need to check on the recruits. Your cousin will be by later with breakfast. Go back to sleep. No lessons today.”

A pause, and then: “Not even with Solas?”

“No,” Imladris said flatly, and then remembered she didn’t want to fuck up her children more than she already had. “He’s still traveling, my little one. He’ll be back soon.” He better, or else she’d rip his heart fucking right out his throat. He had told he would stay. He had begged her, actually, begged her to let him stay, he was tired of walking the din’anshiral, he chose life, more life, her life, the promise and potential that maybe he did not have to burn it all down to let it grow anew.

“Banal’nadas,” she told herself, to shake herself away. The Blight is inevitable. Nothing is fated. A curse from his time, comfort in hers. Banal’nadas: he may just come back. They had built a life together, ill-fated it may have been, and he had woven himself easily into the domesticities. Misery seeped back in as Imladris left her quarters. On gray mornings like this, even sick, he would stir, sometimes grudgingly, and pull her in, ask her what she saw in the Fade, murmur first in his language and then translate into hers what he had witnessed, interpreted, reinterpreted. He liked to watch her get ready in the morning: “You’re such a creature of routine,” he once laughed. “So fastidious.” While he more or less groaned at the day and put on the same tunic and trousers, Vivienne had offered to burn it for her once and she still wasn’t sure if she had been trying to be nice, trying to ruin her relationship, or both. Sera had been less subtle, and hadn’t asked permission, and had gotten jam over the nice surcoat Varric had forced on him after Adamant, and then lobbed a jar of bees at him. The memory of the look of utter disbelief Solas had, as the bees swarmed towards, buoyed her to the training ground, where Solas’ students awaited.

They were surprised to see her, but new enough that they couldn’t see how badly a job was doing--though of course she would never measure up to Fen’Harel, who raised the blast Veil in the first place. She was competent, barely so. Solas had told her her will was too focused for her to master it. She had to accept that her reality was not absolute, and allow it to shift. Well, now it was shattered. Other worlds existed, worse worlds. The fragility of her position was clear. In most other worlds, she did not exist. But how rare and excellent that made this one!

Then she noticed the interloper watching her, judging her, and irritated she turned away and chided herself, it wasn’t this woman’s fault that she was a security breach, a risk of the world unraveling, and she tried to entertain her as her mood soured and snapped when she found her daughter waiting patiently for Solas to return, warm to the touch, and she sent her back to bed and Trevelyan away and lost herself in more meetings on the war, all the wars she was fighting. Imladris fought back nausea and rage and the pity in Leliana’s eyes, when she noticed she was ill, and asked, gently, “My lady, won’t you have a seat?” before the ground rushed up to meet her.

* * *

Tara Trevelyan was not a morning person. Her head pounded from all the wine she had last night. It was however the only way she could convince herself to talk to Solas. What an experience that had been. 

Since the Mage Rebellion, Trevelyan’s life had been crisis after crisis. Upstart gods trying to rewrite reality. Inane Chantry politics. Endless waves of giant fucking spiders wherever she went. Now though, in this place, there was nothing to be done. Her counterpart worked with the rebel Inquisition mages, but she lacked the specific knowledge of this world to be helpful there. Her days were spent with Dagna, Dorian and Fiona discussing the particularities of her situation and how she might return home. They had, unfortunately, not been able to go beyond the theoretical. 

Tara should have been glad. Solas was captured. There was nothing apocalyptic requiring her attention. Instead she felt restless and trapped. Leliana had told her once that she knew how hard it was to put one’s sword down after the war was won. In her experience, the war never ended, as old enemies always gave way to new ones. In this world, Corypheus was still a threat, albeit a reduced one. Her own world had the Chantry loyalists trying to reestablish the Circle, Gaspard attempting to undermine Briala and her revolution, the Qunari launching escalated attacks against the rest of the world and a thousand other threats. Solas was plotting something as well. 

Tara had said her goodbyes to her friends and to Skyhold. Hard as it was, she had made her peace with it. Now, she was stuck here in this place with people who looked like her companions, but who knew a different woman with her face. 

Years ago, Lydia had taught her an exercise to center herself. It involved burning a fire in the center of a piece of paper and preventing it from burning all the way through. It required Will and Drive to light the fire but discipline to control it. 

She thought of Solas, the friend who had betrayed her so utterly. He was the one who taught her rift magic, who always gave wise counsel and who had the most fascinating stories of the Fade. She had trusted him in a way she had trusted few others and he had betrayed her. 

The fire burned right through. Shit. 

Bleary-eyed and hungover, she made her way towards the kitchen for some food. She elected to go through the courtyard where she found Lavellan leading drills for some of the mage recruits. She was using her mark to demonstrate the basics of rift magic. The Dalish First was a very competent mage, that much was clear, but lacked experience in this particular field of magic. Even so, Tara could sense how she pulled at the Fade and how readily it responded to her. Lavellan in battle must have been a sight to see. 

Lavellan looked at her suddenly, and Tara instinctively took a step back Lavellan gestured at her to wait, and said something rapidly in Dalish to a short-haired elvhen mage. Leaving him to supervise, Lavellan approached Tara. “Do you need something, Enchanter?” she asked.

“You’re not a rift mage, are you?” Tara said.

Lavellan looked amused. “No, I follow the Ghilan’him Banal’vhen,” and at Tara’s blank look-- _ guide blight heart _ she translated rapidly--she explained, “I fight with a sword. The Chantry calls it the Way of the Knight-Enchanter.” Tara waited for her to say what the Dalish called it, but Lavellan stayed silent. She could not blame her--Chantry mages had stolen much from her people. Lavellan watched the recruits for a second and frowned. “Solas has taken charge of training the recruits interested in rift magic from the beginning. You understand that they need a substitute for today.” She gave Tara a twisted smile. “I may not be as adept at the man who raised the Veil, but I can lead the basics. The Anchor helps.”

“Ah,” Tara said. “My Solas didn’t do that. And he took the Anchor back. And half my arm with it. So, fair warning: he might still do that.”

Horror, disgust, and amusement fought their way across Lavellan’s face. “I’ll bear that in mind,” she said. She gestured. “A walk?”

Why the hell not? Tara thought. Why the hell not?

Lavellan led her through Skyhold’s great hall, which as bustling as Tara had left it before the Exalted Council. Mostly what struck her were the elves. There were many more Dalish scattered about, and not all of them in military uniform: several were clearly harassed-looking clerks, and Tara started when she spotted a sickly-looking woman with Mythal’s vallaslin that she was sure she met at the Temple of Mythal. Lavellan looked at her, amused. “Her name is Shivana. One of the least fanatic of Mythal’s people.”

Tara frowned. “They outright refused to join us, even when Solas asked.”

“Oh, Abelas was an ass to me, too.” Lavellan still refused to meet her eyes. The elf plucked at a pendant at her neck: a halla rampant. She was rubbing it, as if for luck. She led her into the rotunda, where a young elvhen girl with dark hair was sitting at the desk, curled into a book. There had not been many children in Skyhold. Lavellan walked over to her and smiled, more gently than Tara had ever seen her, and moved a lock of the girl’s hair behind her ear. “Da’vhenan, ahn shiva?” _ Little love,  _

“Harthal, mamae,” the girl said, brushing her hand off, annoyed. “Or I  _ was _ .” Surely they could not have had a child together, there was no way Solas would be that much of a fuck-up--but then Tara remembered that Solas accidentally ripped reality in two trying to stop his fellow gods from destroying the world. The girl grabbed the book and slid out of the chair. She didn’t look at all like him, though: dark eyes and dark hair, her mother’s nose, a rounder face. She couldn’t imagine how this woman could be the Inquisitor and be the mother of a young girl. 

“Mirwen,” Lavellan said warningly, and she held her arms out. The girl came close and leaned into her. She looked at Tara curiously, then hid her face. Lavellan held her close, and explained, “My younger daughter. My older girl’s at the school. Mirwen said she was feeling sick this morning, but I wonder how she is managing to read in the rotunda when she  _ should _ be resting in bed.”

“I got better,” Mirwen protested.

“Uhhuh,” Lavellan said, unimpressed. She laid a hand against her forehead and frowned. “Still warm. You can take that book back to bed with you. Why on earth did you leave?”

“Ar’itha solan. Melahn vegara arla? It’s been so long. And I haven’t been able to find him in the Fade.”

Lavellan closed her eyes, pained, and held her closer. “He’s not gone, my heart. He’ll be home soon. Go back to bed. I’ll join you in a bit.” She sent the girl off and watched her leave. Tara stayed silent. She was quickly learning that Lavellan would not volunteer information if asked. Finally, Lavellan said, as if breaking out of her own thoughts, “She wanted to know when Solas was coming back. She’s a Dreamer, too. They’re close.”

Tara considered Solas as a caring stepfather to this young girl. It was not as jarring as she thought it would be. A shame her Solas had decided to be the monster he was in Dalish legends. 

“Ah,” Tara said lamely. She had never been particularly good at comforting people, and Lavellan was the type of person to be prickly even in a good mood. Family was a sour subject for her as well. She cast about the room, looking for something to talk about, and her eyes fell on the frescoes. They were almost entirely the same as they were in her Skyhold, but one panel was different, and the last was still blank.

A ravening wolf with demented red eyes dominated half the frame, jaws open to gobble up the Black City. Under the city, in the mountains, a small figure with pointed ears stood alone, a hand raised. Tara raised an eyebrow. “Is that you or Solas? He never did that for us. What was there, he painted Adamant. Was it different for you?”

Lavellan bit out, “I don’t find this line of thinking particularly productive, Enchanter.” She turned away. “Let me make this clear: I cannot and will not betray anything I have been told in confidence. I am...sympathetic to your predicament. Uniquely so.” She paused. One thing was certain: she had the same tendency to dramatic pauses as Solas. Tara caught a glimmer of what they must be like as a couple, but just a glimmer. They must read a lot of poetry. Lavellan, finally, continued, “Do you know the Vir Tanadahl?” Clearly they also shared the tendency to monologue. At least she was not speaking in iambic pentameter. “Bend but do not break.  As the sapling bends, so must you. In yielding, find resilience; in pliancy, find strength.”

“Are you telling me to surrender?”

Lavellan blinked, surprised. “No. But,” she hesitated, and glanced at the empty fresco behind her. Tara gritted her teeth and waited. What platitude would she trot out? Solas had that same tendency, to codify meaning in some opaque statement. It was his way of dodging around a subject. Lavellan sighed. “I do not believe in fate. I do not think anything I could say can change what will happen to you. I believe in accident. 

Trevelyan had no patience for such cryptic warnings. She found some people tried so hard to hide the try meaning in their words, they ended up saying nothing. Still, whatever had happened at Adamant in this world, the event Lavellan clearly did not wish to discuss, was the key to redeeming Solas. Irritated as she was, she knew she would get nothing further from this particular conversation. 

“It strikes me that we’ve discussed nothing except Solas. We ought to rectify that.” 

Lavellan’s face darkened, and Tara almost took a step back. “He does have a habit of dominating my life,” Lavellan said. “But, no. I’m needed at the war table. Perhaps you should avail yourself of our library.” It was clearly not a suggestion. With that, she turned heel and left Tara gaping amongst the murals before she could mouth a response. Tara almost pitied Solas. Lavellan clearly blamed him, and she seemed just the type to bring up every small simmering wrong in a fight. She hoped they would set each other on fire. 

* * *

Tara headed to the library, studying again the accounts of those who claimed to have travelled between realities before. It seemed every author on the topic had their minds addled by magical accidents or by drink. One account claimed that consuming a certain mixture of plants gave one the ability to see “the wheel of creation.” Another, slightly more serious, account argued that the Deep Roads were some kind of sigil holding reality together and one could find “cracks.” The last text, of course written by some ancient Tevinter Dreamer, recommended mass blood sacrifice. 

It occurred to her that they may have been approaching this from entirely the wrong place. They were thinking in terms of Fade magic which had a very specific set of rules and limitations. That paradigm could not accommodate her and Solas’s predicament. Fade magic however was not the only kind of magic. 

She had assumed from the start that this bizarre situation was Solas’s fault. It usually was. And he was hiding something, that much was clear from her conversation with him last night. But what kind of magic could he possibly have stumbled upon that could have lead to  _ this?  _

Then, she remembered a report she had received from Leliana immediately prior to the Exalted Council. Her Carta informants had learned that a hooded Dalish elf had been trying to obtain red lyrium from Meridith’s body. Red lyrium that had come from the strange idol Hawke and Varric found in the Deep Roads. She had not thought much of it at the time, all sorts of fanatics sought red lyrium and were often destroyed by it. Besides, she had much more pressing concerns. 

But now she wondered if the two were connected. No one, besides Solas perhaps, understood what magic red lyrium could access. She also thought of Bianca’s discovery in Valammar, that red lyrium was blighted, tying it to the magic of the Blight itself. Magic Solas himself had warned was the most dangerous and evil form of sorcery. Tara hoped he had not betrayed that particular principle, but it was abundantly clear that she did not know him as well as she initially believed. Perhaps she had thought too highly of him. 

She found Varric by his usual spot by the fire, having breakfast with Dorian. 

“Rifty! Or other Rifty. What can I do for you?” 

It seemed that in this world, she had a far more casual relationship with her companions. In her reality, Varric in particular had regarded her with a sort of worshipful distance, explicitly believing her to be some demigod sent by Andraste. To all of them she had been “The Inquisitor” or “Herald”, titles that all but replaced her name. All except for Solas. 

“Well, I believe I know why I’m here. Some sort of blood magic or blight magic. Or both I suppose.” 

“Ah,” interjected Dorian, “If we’re using blood magic, I could send a raven to my friends in Tevinter. We could make a party out of it.” 

“Yeah count me out, Sparkler. Seen too much weird magic in my life.”

“Including the idol you and Hawke found in the Deep Roads. Though I imagine it is not the most pleasant of memories, I need to know more about it. I suspect it may be the key to me being here.” 

Varric sighed. “I should have known I didn’t see the last of that fucking idol. Drove my brother insane, gave Meredith some crazy statue powers and made Kirkwall explode. Should have left it where it was.” 

He continued. “We found it in some old dwarven thaig, stuff in there from way before Tevinter existed. It was guarded by these creepy floating rock demons or something. Then Bartrand ran off with it. Like I said, weird shit.” 

“But no darkspawn?” she asked. 

“Nah. They avoided that thaig. Like they were afraid of it or something. But who knows why the darkspawn do anything?” 

So a Blighted idol was found in an old dwarven thaig predating the First Blight by thousands of years. There were no darkspawn in the thaig so it couldn’t have been corrupted in the time since. The implications were truly astounding.

It meant the Blight was much, much older than the Chantry or even Orzammar thought. Tara thought of Solas’s warnings of Blight magic and the uncharacteristic personal anger he had shown towards those who seeked to wield it. A picture was beginning to form in her mind, and she didn’t like what it showed. What if Solas had sought to wield the power of the red lyrium idol and had inadvertently sent them across realities?

She had left soon after, leaving a bewildered Varric and Dorian behind. She knew would get no answers from Solas or even Lavellan. There was only one place she could learn more about what had happened at Adamant and the red lyrium idol. Perhaps the two were even connected. 

She gathered Felandis from the garden and lyrium dust from the mage tower. She was no Dreamer and so could not slip across the Veil with a mere thought like Solas. But the mixture she was making could induce lucid dreaming so that she could investigate Solas's paintings in the Fade. 

She swallowed the potion and began to dream. She was first met with the disappointed face of her mother. Her subconscious evidently loved to torment her but fortunately was not particularly sophisticated. 

"I would appreciate it of we could hold off the family related nightmare for now. I'm rather busy." 

She evaporated and Tara found herself in the Fade's reflection of Skyhold. If only it was so easy to get rid of her in real life. She made her way to the rotunda where the frescos pulsed with strong emotions. Despair, Fear and Regret. 

Then the frescos began to morph into memories. The formation of the Inquisition, as it was in her world but with Lavellan in her stead. Solas pulling Lavellan into a kiss in what appeared to be Haven. Solas turning around with actual tears in his eyes, and Lavellan softening and pulling him close, arms tightening as a ragged sob escaped him. Then a great three eyed wolf with its jaws around a depiction of the Black City. It morphed again to show Solas and Lavellan together in the room he was currently imprisoned in.

“Look me in the eye and tell me my children aren’t people, Solas. Look me in the eye and tell me they deserve to die," she said. 

"They will die anyway," said the memory of a shamefaced Solas. Then the memory of Lavellan punched him so hard he fell over. 

The images faded as if dispelled by magic. In front of her stood Solas, but this was not a memory. They were silent for a moment until he spoke. “I imagine you have some clever quip about my apparent self-destructive tendencies.” 

“No. I’m tired of being the Chorus in the tragedy you’ve written yourself.” She thought of the red lyrium idol and her growing suspicion that Solas sought to wield it. “I believe there is something very relevant to our particular predicament that you’ve neglected to share with me. Even now you lie.” 

“I have  _ never  _ lied to you, Tara.”    


“We have rather different definitions of a lie then. Though if you suddenly value honesty, you can begin by telling me about the red lyrium idol.” 

Solas went wide eyed for a moment and then smirked. “Is this a deduction you’ve come to on your own? Well done.” 

“You speak to me as if I am some pet of yours, giving me praise whenever I learn a new trick. Speak plainly for once and tell me if you have used the red lyrium idol. Is that why we’re here?” 

Solas remained silent. His eyes darted away from hers, refusing to even met her gaze. “Do you have any idea what you’re dealing with?” she growled. 

“I do. More than anyone alive.” There it was again, another of Solas’s meaningless cryptic statements. The kind he used to avoid taking accountability for any of his actions. He had been at Emprise De Leon, had seen the red lyrium crystals growing underneath people’s skins. He had condemned what the Grey Wardens had done in desperation, only to do far worse himself. 

“I thought better of you.” She supposed however, he could not help but be what he was. What she had been too blind to see. Trevelyan walked away from Solas. She had nothing left to say to him.    


**Author's Note:**

> This Lavellan comes from he5thlazarus's story "Fen'Harel's Teeth" (https://archiveofourown.org/works/22833073/chapters/54568945). What's a queer couple supposed to do in a pandemic other than write about Solas together?


End file.
